


The Worst Soldier

by PunJedi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Finn-centric (Star Wars), Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Minor Poe Dameron/Finn, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers, aftermath of war, discussion of child soldiers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunJedi/pseuds/PunJedi
Summary: What happens to the soldiers, when the war is over? What happens to the soldiers on the losing side, still trapped in the machine slowly, slowly falling apart around them—what happens to the children brought up in armor, the adults who've worn it so long it's grafted into their skin?Finn, co-general and ex-soldier, doesn't have an answer. But he does have a Resistance worth of help to offer, and a heart worn proud on his sleeve, and a story echoing even in the nuclear furnaces of stars.Once upon a time, there was the worst soldier in the galaxy…
Relationships: Finn & Others, Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. What Happens to the Once-Soldiers?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the numerous beautiful fanfics I've read dealing with the idea of _other_ deserters, and their subsequent relationship with Finn, or at least, the story of him. I'd say the fic that most directly contributed to this one's creation would be [have you heard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798602/chapters/13364887) by peradi, a truly lovely work, go read it if you haven't yet!  
> This does contain Rise of Skywalker spoilers, but it doesn't focus overmuch on anything that happened within the movie. Again, it's mostly focused on the aftermath of it all, Finn and his story, and a bunch of ex-trooper children—not crusty old emperors with creepy test-tube Supreme Leaders in storage.  
> I hope you enjoy, and happy New Year! :)

Once upon a time there was the worst soldier in the galaxy, and he was the worst because he ran, he deserted, he turned traitor. He was the worst soldier in the galaxy because he got scared and he got kind, and compassion and cowardice have no place behind pristine armor plates or in the humming-hot barrels of blasters. He became scum, refuse, trash to be crushed.

That’s one version of the story, if Order officers told stories like children around a campfire. Instead they tell stories like spitting bullets, like spitting orders—no frivolity, no fantasy, just cold fact. Fact and fear. It’s one way of telling the story.

Here is another:

Once upon a time, there was the worst soldier in the galaxy, and he was the worst because he realized that he was holding his blaster backwards and aiming at the wrong people, and he realized this before he fired a single shot. He was the worst soldier in the galaxy because he was one of the best _rebels_ , and compassion and care are the backbone of a rebellion, are the metal spine of every fighter, are sewn in the lining of every scruffy scrap of clothing. He became a symbol, a fighter, a general and hero.

 _That_ version _is_ told over campfires, and it’s told over steaming caf on late-night shifts repairing rickety fighter craft, and it’s told in crowded mess halls, and it’s told, slurred, almost reverent, by thick tongues in between scorching sips of contraband liquor. That version is told like a precious secret and it’s told like a proud war banner, and it’s no frivolity but yes fantasy, some fact and never fear.

Finn, if he’s being perfectly honest, would prefer if neither iteration of the story was told, ever. The latter version left him red-faced and tripping over himself to explain the inaccuracies away, and brought a wide grin to Rey’s face, and led to him being clapped on the back by a smiling Poe telling him not to be so modest, buddy, you all but brought down a Star Destroyer from the back of a space yak. The former version, well, just made him angry—not because he was being slandered, but because it was being used as fear-mongering.

Still, the propaganda machine is more unstoppable than a dead emperor’s entire sprawling fleet. Sometimes, when people stop and stare and whisper, and all he wants to do is collapse into his bunk and sleep for days because the end of war does not mean the start of peace, he thinks he’d fistfight Palpatine rather than face the stories.

But Rey had obliterated the Sith Lord, so the stories it was.

He supposed he ought to be grateful. But he’d give all his fame for a feather bed.

“Poor Finn,” Poe teases, half focused on creating some haphazard contraption reminiscent of an X-wing out of the silverware and half focused on the conversation, “burdened by his stardom. So many girls and guys chasing him down he doesn’t get a moment’s sleep.”

“Shut up, Dameron,” Jess says, taking a long pull out of her glass. They’re all a bit sloshed, but it’s not drunk like trying to forget your own name because maybe that would make the burn snaking between your shoulder blades hurt less, because maybe that would make the memories dull—it’s just warm. Finn had thought Jakku would have cured him of any love of heat, and then that snake pit on Pasaana, but no: he still craves it, so long he’d been starved of it in the unending frigid hallways of the First Order. Warmth in Rey’s hand in his own, warmth in Poe’s soft brown eyes catching against his, warmth in the pulse of the crowd and the camaraderie so vital to the rebellion. “He doesn’t need beauty sleep like you do.”

“That’s _General_ Dameron to you,” Poe replies, and then, looking up from his falling-apart fork creation, straight into Finn’s eyes: “And no, he doesn’t.”

Just a glance, a wink, and Finn’s burning all over. Poe’s mouth curves into a smile, soft and pleased, before looking back down at his X-wing, which Jess flicks apart, and the conversation dissolves into shoving and laughing and accusations thrown back and forth as easily and lightly as a child's game of catch.

There is another version of the story:

Once upon a time, there was the worst soldier in the galaxy, and he was the worst because he was so _good,_ so kind and overflowing with that compassion, and pristine white pauldrons covered up his heart on his sleeve. So instead the worst soldier in the galaxy shucked the armor and replaced it with a worn, torn leather jacket, with his heart so deeply impressed in it that it bled through the seams. He became so many things, this kind, beautiful man, the worst soldier in the galaxy, and first and foremost he became a _friend._

That version of the story is known by few and told by fewer, and the most honest of all of the iterations.

Finn likes it best, for its truth, for the warmth it causes to bloom behind his sternum. Poe laughs and Rey smiles and he just shrugs, because there truly is nothing he’d rather be in the galaxy than a _friend_ , and he has no qualms about admitting it, even if it’s best that most see him as the kind co-general rather than the heart-on-his-sleeve.

Still, even he will tell _that_ version of the story, when the situation begs it. When others need to hear it more than he does—not the flattering bantha shit, but the honest to god truth: that you can have been a soldier under a star-killing regime and still be a good person. You can have been that soldier and still be a friend.

* * *

It’s a child, this time, but then it generally is. He catches sight of her between meetings—even after the war, there is still so much to do within the Resistance, and sometimes being a general feels more a burden than an honor. Not that he’ll ever leave Poe to do it alone—he’d pass out from exhaustion, first. Sometimes he thinks that will happen anyways.

Regardless, he greets, “Hello,” and crouches down to be face-to-face with her. She looks like she’d be hiding behind her parent’s legs, if not for two reasons: she has no such parent with her, and she has been taught better.

(Finn _aches,_ when he sees this, when he’s reminded that the Order is full to brimming with perfect soldiers because that’s what it produces, sure as any factory. When he’d first joined the Resistance, there had been children running wild and free, children still cowed by the enormity of the war in its immediacy but still, essentially, _children._ Finn had realized that he’d never seen _children_ before, he’d only seen the cold crippled husks of them, he’d only seen soldiers in child bodies. He’d never known what childhood was supposed to be like until the Resistance showed him, like they showed him everything else. Finn had cried when he’d realized, but now his chest just aches like he’s got something hurting caged within it.)

“Sir,” the girl replies, snapping upright despite the dark circles that ring her eyes, the way her limbs tremble. She looks like she could fall over just trying to draw in air, and she still brings a hand up to her brow in an incongruously steady salute. “I apologize, sir, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Call me Finn,” he says first. “We’re the Resistance, here, we don’t exactly do things conventionally. You don’t have to salute me”—and her hand comes down, shaking visibly now—“but I would like to know your name, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Daph,” she says, quickly. Flinching away—she looked fit to run before, and now she seems a false move away from bolting. “Or—or, I used to be—”

 _Oh,_ Finn thinks, and it must be because he’s between meetings and had spent the night before strategizing upcoming peace talks with a planetary ambassador that he hadn’t realized it immediately. He rushes to correct himself, all but tripping over his own tongue in his haste to stop her next words—“No, no, you don’t have to tell me. I don’t care about your designation—it’s your name that’s important. Daph, you said?” She nods, and fuck, she’s teary-eyed. “That’s a beautiful name. Probably the prettiest I’ve ever heard.” That earns a watery giggle, and she doesn’t even try to cover it up behind her hand. Good—though maybe that’s just exhaustion.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been here?”

“A standard month,” she replies, shyly. Still to-the-point and serious, but not so afraid. Still shivering, but not from fear. “I’m from the Academy on Corellia. I ran away, but Lieutenant Tyce found me and… took me in.”

Finn makes a mental note to give the lieutenant a commendation.

“Well, I’m very glad she did, Daph. Do you like living here?”

She nods, rubbing her bottom lip between her teeth, and then: “Sir—Finn, are you. Um. They say that you were a trooper. Is that—” She cuts off, ducking her head and clearly embarrassed, but Finn is quick to answer.

“Yes, it’s true,” he says, almost soft, giving it the gravity it deserves. He hates that he’s this figurehead, this symbol, but it’s—it’s something he can do, only him, and it _helps._ So he treats this awful truth with the delicacy he’d treat an infant with, and tells her that yes, a once-trooper can be a general, and a once-trooper can be a friend. “I was a trooper. FN-2187. But my partner, Poe—er, General Dameron, he flew us out of the Destroyer where I was stationed. We crashed in the desert, sure, but I ended up joining the Resistance, and here I am.” He spreads his arms a little, nearly losing his balance, and maybe _he’s_ the one who needs rest. “A general, if you can believe it. But I used to a trooper, like you.”

“I’m not anymore,” she says, and it’s almost a question, trembling as surely as her body is and yet undeniably defiant, and Finn’s heart cracks a little more.

“I know that,” he responds. He speaks as quietly and as solemn as General Organa ever was when delivering a message of grave importance, because here, this—this is _his_ message of grave importance, his _You’re my only hope_. These children, these used-to-be soldiers… they represent _everything._ “I know that. You’re one of us, now, and you’re safe here. You can be anything, Daph.”

A beat, and then she _beams_ , wide and gap-toothed.

Finn stands, and offers her a hand, and feels his chest pang when she takes it without hesitation. They walk to where Lieutenant Tyce is stationed, Finn gently coaxing conversation out of her until it flows steadily, and he can see _child_ poking out from behind _soldier_ and he is so, so proud of her. He tells her as much, and she almost falls over, and the lieutenant is looking at him with a bone-deep sort of gratitude, and he asks if there is anything he can do to assist. Tyce just waves him off, color high in her cheeks and smiling, gripping her daughter’s hand tight, and he nods and smiles and leaves.

Finn is late for his meeting.

He can’t bring himself to care.

(Poe covers for him, says, “You can make it up to me,” with a smirk and a wink that shouldn’t work on someone who has seen the man tumble out of his own X-wing into their arms because he was trying to play the suave pilot and tripped—but it still makes Finn blush and smile despite himself, and they kiss, quick, before rushing off toward their separate duties. Within a rapidly-growing Resistance, there are a million fires to put out.)

(When the daily fires are extinguished and night has descended, muting the normally pulsing-with-life base to a soft background hum, Finn absolutely does make it up to him.)

* * *

There is one last version of the story, and it is told by just one, one with a warm mouth pressed behind an ear, kissing that soft, exposed mark between breaths, between words. It goes: once upon a time, there was the worst soldier in the galaxy, and he was the worst soldier because he was so good and so kind, and he saved the life of the best pilot in the galaxy, and they flew away together. He was the worst soldier in the galaxy but he became so much more than that—he became _everything._

That version of the story is told on a lumpy mattress tucked away between battles, kept safe and secret in the shifting space between two bodies, whispered with a sort of intimate reverence that leaves both the storyteller and his audience shivering and sweetly aching and raw.

* * *

Commander D’Acy approaches him not long after he meets Daph, at the adjournment of yet another conference in an interminable string of them, and offers her hand. He takes it—of course, kindest man, general-friend—though confused, and shakes. “Commander,” he greets, tilted up at the end like a question.

“General,” she says, smiling. “I just wanted to thank you. Wrobie—Lieutenant Tyce, my wife—told me that you talked with our daughter the other day? She’s… Daph’s new, to all of this, and it’s been difficult for her. But she seemed happier for having talked to you. More secure. Safer, even.”

 _Safer,_ Force. If that wasn’t a gut punch, a blaster bolt to the sternum, somehow at once a source of warmth and pain. Warmth because: he is glad, more than glad, to be able to _help_ in this way, making this bright young girl feel safe. Pain because: her security shouldn’t be a question in the first place. But somewhere even between the conflict, the past-hurt versus present-help, the old aching Order wounds, he finds a smile. “Of course,” he says, “of course. I’m glad I could help her. She’s a lovely girl, ma’am.”

“She is,” D’Acy says, the lines of her face softening. “We’re very lucky to have her. I just wish…”

She doesn’t finish, but then, she doesn’t have to. The end of the sentence is at once singular and manifold: _I wish she wasn’t scared to address an adult with a question. I wish she didn’t wake up screaming from nightmares, and I wish she didn’t refuse any and all comfort in the aftermath. I wish her childhood hadn’t been strangled at birth, blue-lipped and distended with thick ropey bruises._

_I wish she had never been born a soldier._

“Me too, Commander. Me too.”

They part with a sigh and a smile and a sort of mutual respect, Finn going on to perform his duties, and D’Acy hers, and they both live with this simmering sick sorrow. At least, for the time being—but who is to say the order won’t shift, the Order lose its grip? The war is over, after all, even if that is more in name than in truth. The war is over.

And without the war, a trillion identical helmet-hidden people become _children,_ become broken shells, become the lost and the weary and the defeated, become the fucking furious. A trillion identical non-identities suddenly gain names.

Because here is the story:

Once upon a time, there was the worst soldier in the galaxy, and he defected. The Order hated him for it and the chaotic whirlwind Resistance loved him to rival the hatred—balance, in all things—and he became a thousand other people, none of them a soldier, but never forgetting that he started there.

But what about the other soldiers, the bad and the worse? There can only be one _worst_ soldier, but who does he pass the title down to, when he is no longer a soldier and instead a rebellion general and friend? Who _earns_ the title, when order has crumbled and more and more are leaving—it’s now not _how are there any_ , but _how can there only be_ one _?_

The title jumps, like a fish from a fisherman’s net back into the warm waters of its mother ocean, jumps from soldier to soldier to soldier. It jumps because one can be the worst soldier for only so long, before they are _are not a soldier any longer._ Before they free themselves, throw off the shackles around their ankles, shaped like white molded boots, and the cuffs around their wrists, shaped like hot-throated rifles, and step back out into the light and warmth of the world.

It is not always easy, for these once-worst-soldiers. In fact it rarely is. Not all have an entire regiment to support them, or a rogue pilot to escape with—but there are more, and more, and more of them, as the Order disintegrates and the Resistance steps in, and the question becomes…

What happens to the once-soldiers?


	2. Is a Heart a Liability or an Asset?

“We need to do something,” is how Finn introduces himself at the next meeting of all the Resistance leaders, all but launching out of his seat to slam his hands down on the table, to stare them all in the face one by one. Poe is sitting next to him, stoic—he does not know yet what Finn is going to say, because until a standard hour ago, Finn had had no idea either. But then a transport had flown in, or should he say skidded in, pockmarked by blasterfire and leaking thin gray smoke, and a squadron of children had stepped out.

He says squadron and he wishes he could say “group” or “mess” or “cluster”, but there is no other word to describe the military precision that has been ground into them, the fear and the discipline and the quaking defiance despite it. They aren’t the first—he still sees Daph around and makes a point to wave and exchange pleasantries, even when he’s so busy he could cry—and they won’t be the last, though from now on _he’ll_ go find _them,_ and not the other, smoking scared way around. He will provide safe harbor for every goddamned once-soldier in the galaxy, every child brought up in polished white armor, if it drives him to an early grave to do it.

He’d not discussed it with anyone, not even Poe, because he had spent the entire hour before the meeting helping the children to the medbay, trying to comfort them, telling his story however it felt sour in his mouth—and now he is here, here and furious.

“About what, General?” asks a commander, guileless and genuine; all the people sitting around him wear honest determination set in their faces, and the fury ebbs. Rockhard resolve slots into its place, like lava hardening into igneous stone, and he explains his plan.

To their credit, even the most cautious among them don’t immediately shoot it down. They could easily say, “It’s too dangerous,” or “For what purpose?” or, though it would burn him and Poe would likely launch himself across the table to defend Finn’s honor, “Are we sure they can be trusted?” They could easily say any of those things, with nothing worse earned than a bloody nose, but none of them say a word.

Finn is unspeakably grateful. His speech concluded, he sits back down—his legs are aching and his throat is sore, and he’s lost track of the time, and there are likely a million and one fires that need to be put out that he’s not addressing. He does not care; this, this plan, this council meeting—it takes precedence.

Is one’s heart a liability or an asset? Finn’s long given up concealing his own.

He’s still standing, hands placed upon the table and tapping out a nervous rhythm—at least until Poe’s hand finds his, fingers long-calloused from the pilot stick curling around his own. He squeezes once, and Finn squeezes back.

“You propose to start rescue missions for the stormtroopers?” one colonel asks, once it’s clear that Finn has finished his part, his proposal. “Specifically children? Or the adults as well?”

“Both,” he says, “either. Whoever comes to us. We can target Academies, for the most part, the ones that are still functioning under some corrupt ex-First Order officer’s rule—but anyone who wants to join us can.”

“Couldn’t they have escaped by now? With the Emperor gone, it’s gotten looser. We’ve gotten hundreds of troopers who have abandoned their old stations, and that’s just the Resistance directly, not even counting those who have fled into civilian life.”

“The Order is falling apart,” a Mon Calamari commander replies, “but it’s not destroyed yet. There are still many that are under the control of individual officers that have taken advantage of the chaos.”

Finn adds: “And there are ex-troopers who have suddenly found themselves cast out into a galaxy that largely hates them with no practical knowledge of how to live in it. So yes, I’m proposing we start rescue missions, as well as a rehabilitation campaign. We need to spread it throughout the planetary systems, to help people.”

Jannah hasn’t been seen in over a month, after she left with Lando for some soul-searching that Finn does not begrudge her in the slightest—but it would be nice to have her insight on this, her support. The others who lived with her have either gone back to their island or joined into the Resistance, but they’re spread so far now Finn doesn’t think he could find anyone quickly enough.

He shouldn’t need them, though—he’s the co-general of the Resistance, for the Maker’s sake, and if he can’t get this one crucial thing done then he might as well resign and go live selling scrap on Jakku, for all the good it’d do.

Poe seems to sense his tenseness and stands, that same fierce determination blazing in his eyes that burned when the war was on, the fiery belief rekindled. He’s fucking beautiful, Finn thinks, and then blinks and refocuses on the matter at hand; Maker, he needs _sleep._

“The Resistance has survived scrounging and hiding on backwater planets, chipping at the First Order from a distance, from inside a cockpit. We’ve had it rough—but the troopers have been stuck in the thick of it, fucking _bred_ to _kill._ Now the Resistance doesn’t have to hide, so we might as well use our damned hard-won freedom to help others secure it for themselves.”

He casts a look at Finn, brown eyes all but sparking alight, and says, “I’m with the General, on this one. I’ll lead the missions with him.” He smiles, the edge of his mouth curling up the barest amount. “At least, if he’ll have me.”

“Of course,” Finn replies immediately, then tacks on, “General Dameron.”

Someone coughs, and it sounds like _save it for the bedroom._ Then Commander D’Acy, speaking firmly despite the quirk of her lips, says, “Alright, General. I think I speak for everyone when I say that I have neither the desire nor the power to stop you— _either_ of you—when it comes to this. I only ask when do we start?”

And Finn, some heady mix of hope and triumph colliding and collecting energy in his veins, proud beyond words and even more thankful, brave bold _good_ Finn says:

“Immediately.”

* * *

He regrets the haste approximately as quickly, of course.

“Rey,” he groans, a headache like an Orbak stampede ripping through his skull, “Rey, why did I do this to myself?”

She answers, not bothering to look up from her repairs on the _Falcon_ , “Because you’re a kind and good person who wants to help the galaxy. Also, some fool put you in a position of power, Force knows why.”

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend that way,” he says, closing his eyes against the weak indoor lighting, which is unfairly bright. Thank every Jedi there ever was that Rey hadn’t insisted on having this discussion _outside,_ in the _sun,_ on her horrid Force obstacle course. Of course, lying down on the loam was more comfortable than the cool metal hangar floor, but sacrifices had to be made.

(He says: horrid Force obstacle course. He means: a rainforest stomping grounds that shouldn’t be _possible,_ doesn’t seem possible however many times he’s seen Rey tear through it, and yet… and yet remains one of the places he feels most alive, most connected to it all. Impossible and brilliant and horrid, yes, often miserable, humid and damp and muddy, but fulfilling in a way he didn’t know existed. Satisfying an itch he hadn’t known to scratch. The Force be with you, indeed.)

“Finn,” Rey says, and when he cracks open an eye he finds her leveling a flat stare at him, “when we were trapped in a deadly underground snake nest, that same boyfriend of yours spent his energy on being passive-aggressively jealous of me. Because you made it sound like you were about to confess your undying love. ‘Fool’ is the kindest word I can think of.”

“Point,” cedes Finn, the statistically most foolish trooper that’s ever existed—match made in heaven. A grating squeal, metal on metal, screeches through the hangar, and Finn’s head screeches its own distinct disapproval. He groans. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“No, you haven’t,” Rey says.

“No, I haven’t,” Finn agrees. “But, _fuck._ ”

The jury was still out on whether a heart was a liability or an asset—this once-soldier, with blood smeared on his helmet and ash in his throat, this general-friend, with his arms wrapped around his family like a living armor—but it’s quite clear that having a brain with which to have a headache is a liability, and a lethal one at that. The weariness inherent from leading has only compounded, doubling up until he feels so tired that he could double over at any given second, every moment spent either planning or acting on those plans, reassuring and rehashing and rewriting.

He wouldn’t give it up, not for all the suns in the galaxy.

But _damn_ if it doesn’t feel good to talk to Rey in between it all, when their schedules are so far apart they may as well be on different planets—Finn, docked at the Resistance base, trying to rake away the remnants of a star-sprawling dictatorship; and Rey, taking the _Falcon_ dancing from system to system, raising morale and awareness.

(Really, what she’s doing, sunshine-Jedi, scavenger-girl, is _breathing._ She travels worlds carpeted in lush, pulsing greenery; worlds plunged deep in cobalt seas and prismatic where the triple-sunlight glints off; worlds opposite to the deserted dunes young, rangy Jedis are made and starved in. She is still the daughter of a by-choice family, she still wears the name of a general and a Jedi like a badge of honor, like her desert-dust robes, but here is time to rest. She deserves it, and the universe knows it, the Force knows it—she travels, and the others take up the torch.

Once upon a time, there was a scavenger girl who was born as _no one_ , but she smiled so wide and burned so fiercely that instead, _no one_ could look away. Her parents were nameless and _no one,_ so instead she found the smartass smuggler and the weary full-of-love mother-general and the Jedi in self-imposed exile and made them _all_ her parents, attracted them like the luminescent tendrils of the Force to those with souls as just as bright. She, _no one_ girl, shithole-spawn, chose her own family.

Here is the moral of this version of her story: you can always choose. And the family she chose—they gave her what she needed. They gave her the freedom to jump around the stars, and the space to breathe. They gave this desert-girl a rainforest world.

You can always choose, so choose wisely.)

But regardless of where she _usually_ is, she is _here_ now, and Finn is beyond grateful. Her mere presence is a balm, brushing up against him like strands of sunlight, settling some long-untouched part of him. _That’s the Force,_ Rey tells him. He replies, _No, it’s just you._ They’re both a little right.

“Someone’s coming,” Rey says, posture straightening though her gaze remains attached to the _Falcon_ ’s innards. “Not Poe, or Rose.” Rose, who runs steady as the machines she devotes her care to, who shies from command but runs the hangar with a beautiful brutal efficiency, one of the first Finn turns to when the generalship threatens to bury him. If Finn is the face of the unseen victims, then Rose is that of the unsung heroes. “Younger. Three of them. Feel them?”

Finn lets his eyes flutter shut, feels his brow furrow, casts his fragile new sense out. It’s _not_ new—instinct calls it naturally, a sort of adrenaline-fueled intuition, but here, when he has to channel it himself and faces no danger if he fails, it _feels_ just-born. He needs to train more; add that to the ever-bulging schedule.

Still, he does feel three wisps of light approach, pressing tight against each other, two dimmer and one bright, leading the pack. Then he hears their footsteps over the everpresent clank-crash-whirr of the hangar, and a voice calling, “Finn, sir! Duck and Binary wanted to talk to you!”

He opens his eyes to three children—Daph, a child about her age, and an older boy—trotting up to him, Daph leading the younger with a hand around their wrist, the boy trailing slightly behind and wary. “Hey,” he says, sitting up to face them, “I know you guys, right? You were on the transport a week ago.”

Binary, the pale redhead with their wrist still clasped in Daph’s hand, nods. Duck, dark-haired and copper-skinned, a starburst scar curled on his forehead, says, “Yes, sir.”

“Now, what did I tell all of you about that ‘sir’ garbage?” he asks mildly. “Really, my name is Finn. I know the Resistance is scruffier than you’re used to”—Rey snorts, and Finn smiles—“but that’s just how we do things here.”

“You’re a general, sir,” Duck replies. “It’s respectful.”

“Yeah, but I’m also your friend,” Finn says, and Duck doesn’t seem to have a response for that. “Besides, you deserve my respect, too. You helped lead the other children, didn’t you? To safety? You deserve just as much respect from me as I do from you, if not more.”

While Duck stares, wide-eyed, Daph turns and beams at him. “See, I told you he was nice. Not like the Academy instructors.” Then, lowering her voice as if it’s a vital secret she’s imparting, “He was a trooper, once, like us. But he’s not anymore, and we aren’t either.”

Here, a partial answer— _what happens to the once-soldiers?_ They free themselves to tell their story, congregate and build up what was denied to them. They flock to the worst soldier in the galaxy, once-trooper, general-friend, and ask him to tell _his_ story, sir, please. He tells them not to call him ‘sir’, and smiles.

Binary pipes, “What is he, then?” peering at him as if they can untangle the strands of his DNA just by looking hard enough. Finn hears Rey stifle another laugh behind him, murmur something that sounds like _A pain in the ass,_ and he reaches out with the Force to loosen a scrap of metal above her head. There’s a clang and a muttered curse, and he tamps down on his own chuckle.

“A friend,” Daph says, just as Duck answers, “A general.” They shoot each other a look, caught somewhere between distrust and surprise and confusion, and Finn remembers that Daph is old to this, used to this—at least comparatively, her several months to their week—and she doesn’t know the others as well as they know each other. Near-death experiences might foster strong bonds; a childhood spent in the First Order’s Academy fosters anything but.

Before it can devolve, Finn cuts in, says, “You’re both right. I’m a general, and a friend. Your friend. Her friend, unfortunately”—he jerks a thumb at Rey, who waves and smiles—“and basically the friend of anyone who isn’t a First Order asshole.”

“Told you so,” Daph shoots at Duck, so Finn adds: “I’m _also_ a general of the Resistance. Poe Dameron, my partner, is the other.” Rather than retorting verbally to Daph, Duck just tilts his chin up, and she huffs.

Binary, unheeding of the other two, asks, “You were a trooper. How did you escape? You didn’t have a squadron to escape with. She”—they nod at Rey—“isn’t a trooper. Neither is your partner.”

Finn raises his eyebrows. “How d’you figure?”

“He has a last name. Troopers don’t have last names. And she’s a Jedi.”

“Well, you’re right,” Finn answers, “on both counts. Except that troopers _can_ have last names, if they choose them. Family names. Rey—that’s her—chose her family name.”

“Do you have a family name?” Binary asks, derailed from their earlier question by this intriguing new query, and all three of them are laser-focused in on him; if they were snipers he’d have three red dots smack in the center of his forehead, pinning him down.

He should’ve expected this—it’s his own fault that he feels so caught off-guard. The thing about once-soldiers, those who used to be but letters-dash-numbers, is that they get to remake themselves. They choose their family, and their family chooses them back, and he still hasn’t—they still haven’t—well. Out of all the answers spinning through his head, though, he chooses the simplest: “Er, no, not yet.”

“‘Yet’?” Binary asks, voicing the question he sees in all three of them—but it’s asked more clinically than he thinks Daph _or_ Duck would have managed, so the Force has taken some small measure of pity on him.

“He’s waiting for his boyfriend to ask him,” Rey interrupts, banging around behind them as if the illusion of being extremely busy will keep her safe from Finn’s wrath. (It wouldn’t usually; she’s lucky there are kids present.) “Or suggest it. Whatever. His family name’s basically Dameron, so you should all call him General Dameron from now on.”

“Two officers named General Dameron?” Duck asks while Finn sputters. “That seems inefficient.”

“I’m _not_ General Dameron, don’t listen to her.”

“Okay,” Daph says, quite obviously fighting back a face-splitting grin, “General Dameron.”

Rey laughs, and Finn sighs, resigned, as the children start to chatter rapid-fire amongst themselves and Finn loses all semblance of control. He realizes, belatedly, that he is going to have to break it to Poe that an entire contigent of children is now going to be under the impression that they are both General Dameron. The officers are going to have a field day. The pilots will piss their flight suits laughing.

He sighs again—forcibly smothering a fond smile—and can’t bring himself to feel too badly about it. (Is a heart a liability or an asset? Is a name?)

Daph and Duck and Binary don’t leave right away, not drifting off like he thought they would after losing immediate interest in him, instead staying close and clustered in the hangar. Binary even breaks Daph’s hold on their wrist to wander closer to Rey, who starts up a quiet dialogue about whatever part she’s working on. The other two don’t seem about to kill each other, so Finn leaves it, contenting himself to lay back down—unfortunately, the arrival of the children didn’t miraculously cure his headache—and let the sounds of muted conversation and clattering metal wash over him.

He might even be falling asleep, soothed by the sense of security lapping at the edges of his consciousness, when—

A familiar presence, warm and safe and loved but frantic, bursts through the contentment like a lit firecracker thrown into a crowd, and rapid on its heels is a cry of “Finn!”—the voice, also, warm and safe and loved but _frantic, frantic._

“Poe,” he replies, hardly thinking, already on his feet when his partner barrels into the hangar, sprinting to the _Falcon,_ BB-8 hot on his heels _._ “Poe!”

“There’s a report of a still-operating Academy on Vardos,” Poe yells as he approaches them, “but it’s being burned down. Radical locals. Kids in danger!”

“ _Shit,_ ” Finn says, shocked still for half a second, “shit, shit, _shit!”_

Rey, calm and competent as always, is already slamming shut hatches and shoving her tools away, shooing the kids out from underneath the ship. “We’ll take the _Falcon,_ it’s fastest and can fit more people. No, shut up, I’m coming with you. You three”—she bends down, one fluid motion, to kneel before the children—“can you guys go find Commander D’Acy and tell her that the generals have left, and to prepare to send more transports if necessary?”

“‘Course I can,” Daph chirps, “she’s my mom!” With that, the kids bolt for the hangar entrance and slip out of sight.

Finn casts one last glance back at where they disappeared before dashing into the belly of the _Falcon_ —if everything goes right, they’ll be bringing back an Academy’s worth of miniature whirlwinds, bruised-but-healing once-soldiers, cadets that were born into the uniform. Fuck, his chest aches to think about it, to think about the childhood he and so many others lost.

Is a heart a liability or an asset? When it feels like it might punch a hole in your ribcage with the force of its hurt, when that selfsame hurt is what propels you onward? Hindrance or help, bane or boon?

He supposes, hand white-knuckling the back of the pilot’s chair as they take off, that he’s about to find out.


End file.
